


Forty Years

by durinsheir (ShadowChanger)



Series: After All Else [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Book, Post-Hobbit, forty years later, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowChanger/pseuds/durinsheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years later, and the pain had not faded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty Years

**Author's Note:**

> Here lies my first foray into The Hobbit fanfiction.

When Bilbo tells Frodo of Erebor and “the business with the dragon”, he always stresses the fact that the entire affair was most assuredly the wizard’s fault.

  
“But Uncle,” Frodo says, “the treasure – the sword!”

  
And Bilbo shakes his head, his eyes closed tightly for the briefest of moments.

  
“No, my dear boy. The gold came not from Gandalf, no. And I –ahem- found the sword, remember?” The shadow passes from Bilbo’s face and small smile appears. “Run along now, Frodo,” he says, winking. “I must recount my vast collection of gold and jewels in the basement!”

  
And Frodo laughs, so young and without pain or worry, dashing out the front door into the midday sun.

  
Later, after the sun falls behind The Hill and all the warmth leaves the air, Bilbo locks his doors and windows. He extinguishes the candles and lamps, but leaves the fire smoldering in the hearth.

  
The old trunk groans as he forces it out of a forgotten closet. Dust particles float through the dark. He wrinkles his nose against the smell. Troll-stink, not surprisingly, worsens with time.

  
Time. Such a thing, time.

  
Bilbo shakes his head; the movement scatters dust motes once again. He steps onto the trunk and peers into the dark closet. Barely a moment of hesitation passes before he reaches for the top shelf. He finds what he wants, sets it carefully to the side, and returns the old trunk to its spot in the closet.

  
The fire is dying in the hearth, it’s light but gone, when the first hint of morning sun slides under the door.

  
And still Bilbo sits on the rug in front of the hearth, a sheathed Elvish blade clutched to his chest and a worn map with faded red ink spread before him.

  
But the sword, like the gold and silver, was cold, and the map was only old parchment.

  
Forty years, and the pain had not faded.


End file.
